


The (very brief) rise and (fucking terminal) fall of Steven Fleming

by morred



Series: Sam ascending [2]
Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morred/pseuds/morred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Tucker has fallen victim to Steve Fleming's coup and Sam is left to hold the fort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Down and out

**Author's Note:**

> For Sophie

Sam has an irreducible core of pragmatism (something she doesn't always like to admit, and which she's definitely inherited from her mother). In the aftermath of Malcolm's departure (she will call it neither a sacking nor a resignation), after the initial shock is over, she considers her options. She could oh-so-easily find a better position. Better pay for shorter hours and less grief. Leave the whole bloody lot of them to stew. ( _It's not_ , she thinks traitorously, _like we'll win the next election anyway_.)  
  
After an hour of working with Steve Fleming ('Call me Steve' he says, and Sam immediately resolves that she'll call him nothing but Mr Fleming), Sam realises that it won't be enough for her simply to leave. She wants to _destroy_ him. She wonders if this is what it feels like to be Malcolm.  
  
~*~  
  
Deep down, Sam had known Malcolm was going as soon as Fleming walked in; her hands had started moving almost before she realised. There's a protocol for this, even if she devised it herself and circulated it to no one except Malcolm. She had transferred the contents of several folders onto the spare external hard drive, which had then been placed in her bottom desk drawer, behind a pack of Always and a spare pair of shoes. She'd called Frankie and quietly informed him that she Fleming was instigating a coup. Frankie had sworn as only an angry Scotsman could and abruptly rang off.  
  
Sam then had nothing to occupy her. Fleming had left the door open, the bastard, and she'd watched Julius hurry through. He had given Sam what might have been meant for an apologetic smile, but the overpowering aura of smug had made it hard for her to be sure. Malcolm's raised voice had drifted down the corridor, followed almost immediately by a distraught Nicola Murray, who'd scurried past Sam without a backward glance and fled the building. Suddenly, deathly silence radiated out from The Room.  
  
Sam, reluctant to leave her post, had pulled up the BBC's online live news feed. _Malcolm Tucker resigns_. She'd felt nothing but an empty, hollow shock.  
  
Two men she vaguely recognised had barged in to stand either side of her, in an attempt to be threatening that worked quite well. One had started rattling off a list of things "Steve" was going to need in the next ten minutes, while the other looked over her shoulder at the open files on her desk and the open windows on her computer and waved to a third, who had started pawing through her filing cabinets. _Malcolm Tucker resigns_. They began to talk over her head, deliberately, swapping stories and rumours they'd heard about Malcolm Tucker. It was the vicious glee in their tone that had finally got to her and, to her lasting shame, she had burst into tears. _Malcolm Tucker resigns_  
  
They had simply laughed and told her to just get on with her new fucking to-do list, darling.  
  
She'd been able to tell the moment he entered the room, and not just because the two goons had fallen silent. He'd made it over to her desk in two short strides, coat flowing out behind him.  
  
The need to escape, to get out, had been written all over his face, yet he'd stopped to shout them off. Sam's confident that she was the only person there who could tell how close he had been to breaking down completely.  
  
It is, she thinks later, like the moment when Holmes goes berserk and threatens to kill whoever hurt Watson; a brief reassuring revelation of affection.  
  
Then he'd left, and she had started to make Mr Fleming's calls.  
  
~*~  
  
Fleming leaves relatively early on his first day, strewing cliches in his wake. Fail to prepare and prepare to fail. Early to bed and early to rise ( _makes a man a sad fucking loser_ , Sam finishes in her head), a healthy work-life balance benefits everyone (from what Sam's heard, this would be a balance between work and having a grubby affair with your children's nanny before running off with said nanny and leaving the children with your ex-wife).  
  
Sam goes into Malcolm's office (Fleming locked it, but she has a key) to clear everything away. The last thing Malcolm is going to need is to come back and clear his desk under Fleming's piggy little eyes. It feels uncannily like the time she went with her mother to sort out her late grandmother's house. She wants to stick little red stickers on everything Steve _fucking_ Fleming isn't allowed to have (which would be everything).  
  
Instead, she bundles up anything that is definitely Malcolm's. A lot of his personal effects were presents from Sam (coasters, bought when she saw his wince as a coffee cup went down on the dark wood of his desk; mugs; several notebooks, full of lists sprawled in his angular writing). Others she barely knew were there (there's a dusty photograph album in the back of the bottom desk drawer, filled with pictures apparently taken at the height of the party's sweep into power - Malcolm grinning on election night on the arm of a tall woman with black hair, Malcolm in the background of the Prime Minister's first speech, Malcolm at Conference singing _The Red Flag_ ). She closes it quickly and then wipes it to remove all trace of her fingerprints. She feels slightly silly doing so, but she does it anyway.  
  
She carefully removes his niece's drawings and has to stop for a moment when she sees the childish writing on the back of one. ( _To Uncl Mallcom, this is you and me playing in the sunshine on the beach last summer. Mummy says I shud tell you what the painting is about because grownups are bad at telling what children draw. Love, Iona_ and a sprawling mass of pencilled kisses).  
  
They all go into boxes, packed carefully and methodically to avoid any possibility of breakages. His spare suit, shirt and tie she keeps in the wardrobe-cum-cupboard of her own office; the spare cufflinks have always lived in her top drawer.  
  
Sam retrieves the spare Blackberry (all settings exactly emulating those on Malcolm's own, right down to the ringtones) from her desk, together with one of several spare chargers. She pauses for barely a moment, then spends an hour on the phone to Vodafone, transferring Malcolm's number to the new phone. She transfers the backup of the old SIM (phone numbers, call register, addresses, emails) from her computer to the new SIM and places the new Blackberry at the top of the box.  
  
Malcolm, she is fairly sure, is not going to want to see her, so she writes him a short letter (mainly to explain about the Blackberry) and sends it all round to his house in a taxi.  
  
The next morning, a bunch of flowers is delivered to her house before she leaves for work. There's only the shortest of notes, apologising for sending it to her home _but what little there is of Steve's mind is really nasty_. Sam can hear the 'fucking' that Interflora refused to print.  
  
~*~  
  
It takes Sam several hours to notice that she is never alone in her office for the first full day of Steve Fleming's reign. One of what she's always privately thought of as the Black Watch always seems to be around, picking up photocopying, asking inane questions, just passing through. It takes a further hour's thought (to be fair to her, she's distracted by Fleming's constant calls of 'Sammy!') to realise that Malcolm's put them up to it. She doesn't call him, some guilty part of her doesn't want to hear him, so she calls Frankie instead (thankfully they're all on contracts that mean Fleming can't just get rid of them) and patiently explains that she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.  
  
'Yes, I know, but Malcolm is _not here_ and I am, and I'm more than capable of screwing up your day if you doesn't comply and then complaining to Malcolm that you upset me.'  
  
This seems to take care of it.  
  
It becomes rapidly clear that Fleming is not going to trust her with anything important. Whether this is because he believes her to be Malcolm's creature, or because she's only a PA ('secretary' he calls her, until she frostily reminds him) she doesn't know. She answers the phones and books meetings and schedules interviews and seethes.  
  
~*~  
  
Fleming seems undecided whether Sam was cold-heartedly sleeping her way to the top or suffering Stockholm Syndrome and insinuates both whenever he forgets to be nice (which is often). He gives her an obviously-rehearsed little speech about emerging from dungeons, blinking in the sunlight, scared but hopeful. Sam listens politely while filing her nails (if Fleming wants to treat her like some fucktoy secretary, that's what he's going to get). Privately, she thinks a more appropriate anecdote might be that time a friend-of-a-friend offered her a lift home after a party, because it "wasn't at all safe for her to walk home alone", and promptly took advantage of the opportunity to feel her up in the car.  
  
~*~  
  
By the third day, Sam is fielding calls from secretaries across the building. She has always, somewhat unwillingly, been something of a spokesperson and a figurehead for them. They gather in clusters, around water coolers or kettles or in the ladies loos and whisper about Steve Fleming and how utterly odious he is.  
  
Towards the end of the third day, Sam's private line rings and she takes a call from Nicola Murray, who wants to know if Sam's heard from Malcolm. She also, it transpires, wants to give a halting confession of her involvement in Malcolm's sacking, to which Sam listens as sympathetically as she can. Three days seems to have been just long enough to persuade Nicola that Malcolm isn't going to firebomb her house, but long enough for her to start worrying that he has an even more diabolical revenge in mind. With as much tact as she can muster, Sam suggests that Malcolm probably has bigger fish to fry at the minute.  
  
Sam gets the distinct impression that there's something else that Nicola wants to say, but between the facts that Nicola can barely finish a sentence and that she keeps trying to make jokes, they never seem to get to it.  
  
~*~  
  
Things get progressively worse. Dan Miller is stalking the corridors1, smiling at any movement that might be a camera and quietly refuting any suggestion that he wants to be leader2. Fleming is firefighting as best he can, but several politicians and even some journalists are proving surprisingly loyal to Malcolm (more to do with Malcolm's very special file of photos and leaked internal memos than personal loyalty) and not being as helpful as they might. And Fleming is still refusing to allow Sam to help with anything important, which is a shame, because she could possibly have coaxed the Scottish mafia to do some work. Nicola Murray has apparently caused a minor incident at DoSAC by having a full-scale yelling match with Fleming, in which she expressed her opinion that he was an incompetent tosspot and don't fucking call me Nicky, you repulsive twat. Sam approvingly adds Murrray as the third person on her list of people who'd walk through fire for Malcolm.  
  
She still hasn't heard from Malcolm, which worries her. She had expected him to be in contact by now, ready with a list of instructions for her to bring down Steve fucking Fleming once and for all and, preferably, sort out the Dan Miller situation. She has now sent him several emails briefing him on the situation with the Dan Miller Band (as the cabal has inevitably been termed) and there's been no reply. Sam even tries calling him, _twice_ , but it goes straight to voicemail each time (which would previously have been a sign that he was _dead_ ).  
  
She is very close to tears again. It's at this point that the youngest and least threatening of the Black Watch taps gently at her door and asks her for a word.  
  
1 Sam cordially detests Dan Miller, whom she knew at Oxford. He cheated on one of her closest friends with most of the first VIII (men and women's first VIII) and then, once she ended it, amused himself by fucking half of OUCA1.5.  
1.5 the Oxford University Conservative Association  
2 The universally recognised British political code for 'I want to be leader'


	2. Sam takes charge

There is, it seems, a rumour being circulated that Nicola Murray had a secret abortion, paid for by Malcolm (which is fucking _typical_ , Sam thinks - Fleming can't even think of something original) and that Sam is, at this very moment, carrying the Scottish Mugabe's love-child. The gangly ginger Scot who relays this to her watches in horror as her face hardens. Her voice is brisk and clipped as she presses him for the details he was hoping she wouldn't ask about. Westminster being what it is, Sam is willing to bet that someone somewhere has already started speculating whether she and Nicola got pregnant as part of some awful threesome ('sadistic Scottish gang-bang' the Sun would call it, and she hates her ability to think in red-top headlines) or, worse, how consensual either of their sexual encounters were. Malcolm is probably a recent-enough memory that no one has yet breathed even so much of a word of any of this to the papers, but it's only a matter of time.  
  
She gives the messenger a terrifying smile and then rattles out a list of orders. _No one_ from the press team is to do anything other than pretend that they haven't heard those rumours, they know nothing about them, but it's well-known how much Fleming hated Malcolm, etc. She will sort this out herself.  
  
Once he's left, she tries calling Malcolm and once again reaches voicemail on every number she knows. Fine, she thinks. Something inside her snaps and she chides herself for letting pathetic, childish hero-worship get in the way of what needs to be done. Malcolm needs to come back, and if he won't get off his sorry Scottish arse and do it himself, Sam will just have to make him. This is her banging Drake's fucking drum and dragging Arthur out of his fucking cave or up from under his mountain or wherever he is - sticking his bloody sword up his arse if necessary.  
  
She immediately emails several university friends (the advantage of reading PPE: those of her friends who aren't working for the Opposition are now lawyers), picking those working at or with the most terrifying legal names. Then she calls Nicola Murray (she must have been at home; it sounds like Sam's interrupted feeding time at the zoo) and schedules a meeting first thing the next day. She carefully marks out the time in the diary and leaves a note on Malcolm's desk for Fleming.  
  
She thinks about her next move in the taxi on the way home. She puts in a brief call to Malcolm's agent (whose very existence is a closely guarded secret), pretending to be checking on something else, and confirms what she already thought; Malcolm had a meeting with him, stormed out the BBC and hasn't returned his calls since). If Malcolm really has holed himself up away from the world, she can think of only one person who could drag him (literally, probably) back.  
  
Sam goes inside and pours herself a large glass of wine. Then she takes a deep breath and calls Jamie.  
  
He picks up on the first ring, ominous in itself, and she can hear his relief as he says, 'Sam. He wouldn't let me call you.'  
  
Sam focuses on her breathing. Of course Malcolm wouldn't let Jamie call her - the last time she saw Jamie he'd punched her. (She is fairly sure that Malcolm has seen Jamie since that Incident, but has very carefully Never Known For Sure.)  
  
'That's the only sane thing I've got out of him so far, the stupid fucker's just sitting on one of his upholstered sofas trying to get his fucking shitbag depressive face to go grey enough to match his fucking scatter cushions.'  
  
'You're with him?' Sam's relief echoes Jamie's. If he's in Malcolm's house, this might just be solvable.  
  
'Aye. Only arrived this afternoon - fucking paparazzi vultures were circling and I couldn't get near. And the daft fuck wouldn't go to a hotel, or his sainted sister's... wanted to wallow in his own fucking despair like some sad sack who had to resign because he was blowing the Opposition.' Jamie sounds angry, he always sounds angry, but there's an undercurrent of panic there. Sam has a sudden vivid image of Jamie threatening to break down the door to get into Malcolm's office, or his face after one of their more vicious rows (the vicious rows that happen behind closed doors, make Jamie disappear and Malcolm sulk for days, and that Sam pretends she doesn't know about).  
  
'Jamie.' Sam tries to remember how Malcolm deals with him, but comes up with a blank that's then filled by extremely disturbing mental images. She's never seen them do more than glare, or have extreme shouting matches. She's treading on thin ice - she neither knows nor wants to know very much about whatever it is between Jamie and Malcolm. Malcolm always seems calmer when the younger Scot's about, and Jamie is clearly almost dangerously obsessed, but beyond that... She swallows; she really doesn't want to ask this. 'Do you think he wants to come back.'  
  
The reply is instantaneous. 'Of course he wants to come back. He just needs a bit of time, tha's all. D'ye need me to come in? I'd rather... But I hear Dan Miller's creeping about like everyone's favourite nutjob stalker.'  
  
'No.' She realises she's said it too fast and paces herself. 'I can deal with Dan Miller. I can deal with Steven Fleming and whatever ton of shit he wants to upend on me and I can deal with Nicola Murray and I can deal with whatever the ministers decide to cock up between them in the meantime. What I can't do is-' to her horror, her voice cracks. Jamie makes a sound of wordless sympathy. 'He won't take my calls, or respond to my emails, Jamie. I can deal with everything here, but I need him to... can you...?'  
  
'I know, pet. I'm here now, I will sort the fucker out.' She wishes he sounded more certain.  
  
'Right. Let me know when he's taking an interest and I'll resend the briefing notes.' She won't ask to speak to him. Her voice cracks again and she fights for control. 'Look, Jamie, I know we don't always... but... he seems to be fond of you, god knows why, you appalling psycho, so fucking look after him or I'll put you on my list right after Steven Fleming, ok?'  
  
Jamie nods, mutters that he understands and hangs up.  
  
Malcolm is still sitting on the sofa, staring at the tumbler of whisky in his hands. Jamie grabs it and hurls the glass against the wall, watching in satisfaction as it shatters and amber liquid trickles slowly down Malcolm's pristine white paint.  
  
Malcolm stands up and whirls on Jamie, teeth bared and snarling. 'What the fuck.'  
  
'You know Sam?' Jamie asks, totally unfazed by Malcolm's glare or the fists balled at his sides. 'Your wee PA who you think's a cross between Mother Fucking Teresa and the blessed Virgin herself?'  
  
'Don't you even... how dare you...' Malcolm's snarling incoherently, one hand now fisting in Jamie's tie.  
  
'You've made her cry,' Jamie explains with deliberate viciousness. 'Sobbing down the phone, she was. She's dealing with fucking Steve fucking Fleming - and you know how fond he is of a quick fucking tumble with the staff. He's probably got her sucking him off under his desk as we fucking speak. She probably had to take his cock out her mouth before she could call me. And there's Dan Miller and his band of Poxbridge Poofs stirring up shit, which she's also dealing with on her own.'  
  
'Go and help her then, if you care so fucking much. Go on, fuck off.' Malcolm's still got Jamie's tie wrapped tight around his fingers.  
  
'While you're just sitting here on your fucking emaciated arse, crying into your whisky like a fucking jessie because puir wee Malc got the sack.'  
  
For all that Malcolm is at least standing up and showing some animation, it's still not a great improvement. His eyes are a terrifying blank. Jamie leans in. 'It's only Steve Fleming - the cunt who was rejected from the fucking Village People for being too fucking bent. You beat him before, remember? What were you, about 19 and you fucked him over and left him dead on the side of the road like a fucking mashed-up squirrel. What's wrong with you, man.' Malcolm still hasn't moved, hasn't spoken. 'You can fucking batter Fleming, Malc. It's not like it's your fucking da' we're up against.'  
  
Jamie feels a swoop of satisfaction as Malcolm's hand yanks sharply on Jamie's tie and then transfers itself to his throat. Jamie always forgets how freakishly strong Malcolm can be when he truly loses it. Jamie's hauled up on the balls of his feet, strong fingers clenched around his windpipe. He has to bring his own hands up to Malcolm's shoulders to stop himself choking.  
  
Malcolm pulls Jamie's face close to his. There's a tense pause. 'I'll fucking bury him,' Malcolm whispers, trying out the words. Jamie nods encouragingly. Malcolm drops Jamie's throat and crushes his lips against the shorter man's. When they break for a ragged breath, Jamie tentatively strokes his thumb gently across Malcolm's cheekbone.  
  
'Jamie...'  
  
'Aye,' Jamie replies, and lets Malcolm steer him towards the bedroom.  
  
~*~  
  
Sam has a sleepless night. Usually, in these situations, she would take something, but she's sleeping with her Blackberry on the bedside table and she daren't risk missing a call. Any call.  
  
Naturally, this behaviour ensures that there is no call, and Sam awakes from a fitful doze and tries to prepare herself for her meeting with Nicola. She chivvies herself into a feeling of confidence that a) Jamie will be sorting Malcolm and b) she, Sam, can sort everything else. She allows herself the faintest hope that Nicola Murray will prove to be an ally, not something else to sort (Malcolm likes her, after all. But Malcolm also likes Jamie3).  
  
Murray's house is a good deal more organised than Sam would have expected, though it presumably helps that the children have all gone to school and her (Sam suspects useless) husband has gone off to do whatever it is he does. Something rampantly capitalist, she knows from Malcolm's4 rants, but that could be anything from surgeon to sweatshop owner.  
  
Nicola seems slightly calmer on her own turf than Sam's ever seen her in Westminster. That's probably to be expected. She bustles about, making Sam a cafetière of (decaf) coffee and proferring toast, marmalade or the sort of biscuits that would warm Julius Nicholson's heart. Since this was supposed to be a breakfast meeting, Sam goes for toast and marmalade and sits nibbling (had she eaten last night? She finds she can't remember) while Nicola waffles around the subject.  
  
'I suppose this is about the rumours?' Nicola asks eventually. Sam offers up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that she doesn't have to break the news. 'That's a conversation I do not want to have again. I had to tell Terri three times that it wasn't true before I could get her to put away her therapists' leaflets.'  
  
'And Glenn and Olly?' Sam smirks into her coffee.  
  
'So far, they are pretending that they don't know anything about it and desperately hoping that I don't know anything about it.' Nicola grins. 'I've got a briefing scheduled with them both this afternoon - I think I already know at least two of the jokes Olly will make to cover his adolescent embarrassment.'  
  
'The thing is,' Sam forces herself to bring this back to business, 'we really cannot allow the rumours to continue. It'll block any move we make to reinstate Malcolm, and it'll hamper your career forever. This sort of thing doesn't go away.'  
  
'What do you suggest? You're the communications specialist here,' Nicola asks. Sam realises that Nicola's immediate and whole-hearted deferral to (what she sees as) superior skill must be one of the things that Malcolm likes about her.  
  
Sam pauses; Nicola is not going to like this. 'You're Catholic,' she asks, tentatively. Nicola nods. 'Well, lapsed, a bit.'  
Sam nods, hardly listening. 'Do you have a good, scary, lawyer?' She's fairly sure Nicola must have; Sam's read her file. 'One of the Old Roedeanian mafia'd be best, if you're in touch with any of them.'  
  
Nicola looks unshocked that Sam knows what school she was at, but Sam explains anyway. 'I read your file... and your name's inscribed in gold on one of the boards outside Chapel, if I've got your maiden name right.' She thinks for a moment. 'Hockey colours, head of Tanner House and Games Prefect?' Nicola looks a bit wary, distrustful (as well she might be) at the display of Sam's eidetic memory. 'I tested out a couple of memory systems using the school boards when I was in sixth form.' Sam shrugs.  
  
'I know a lawyer...'  
  
Briskly, Sam explains. She will need a list of _everyone_ fairly senior (no use bothering with the proles, Sam says dismissively) that Nicola has heard repeating the rumours about her secret abortion or Sam's supposed pregnancy. Sam has a similar list already underway. All the people on that list will receive a letter from both Sam and Nicola's lawyers, delineating exactly how defamatory the unfounded rumours are (especially given Nicola's deeply held religious beliefs and Sam's impeccable character) and (this is the part Sam knows Nicola's going to baulk at) basically implying in the most exquisitely worded legalese that it is _in itself_ a slander and a slur on both their characters that they'd allow Malcolm Tucker anywhere near them. Possibly with a delicate suggestion if there's any hint, even the merest whisper that their alleged liaisons with Malcolm were coerced, then anyone repeating those slurs will be in for a world of legal shit.  
  
Nicola ponders for a moment, hands restlessly fiddling with a coaster while she orders her thoughts. 'There are three problems I can see with this. One - I'm not sure that it actually is defamatory, under a strict interpretation of the law. Two - is it really a good idea to acknowledge the rumours so openly? And three - it's... that... don't you think it feels a bit like kicking him when he's down?'  
  
Sam covers up the fact she agrees entirely by rolling her eyes. 'One - who cares? If you put it in frightening enough language and include a veiled threat that all the papers will know that they're sharing absurd, misogynist tittle-tattle they'll back off. Two - everyone _has already heard_ the rumours. Pretending they don't exist isn't an option at this point, believe me.' Sam rubs a hand over her face. 'And three. Yes. He...' she's almost going to say that he won't have to know, but this is _Malcolm_ they're talking about and Nicola's not stupid. 'It's the most convincing argument of the lot - they hate Malcolm, so it'll be easy for them to understand that no-one wants their names linked with his - it's the one that people will most readily believe. And it's bitchy enough that _that's_ the bit they'll repeat over coffee, so it'll spread.' She goes on to make the case that if they don't stop this now, Stephen Fleming will have forced both their resignations and then where will Malcolm be?  
  
Nicola nods slowly and agrees. She puts through the call to her lawyer while Sam makes more coffee (decaf; she can't find any caffeinated drinks in the entire kitchen). 'Where _is_ Malcolm now?' Nicola asks when Sam gets back.  
  
'At home, plotting.' Sam lies loyally. Nicola must _know_ this is a lie - if Malcolm really had been plotting, it'd hardly have been left to Sam to nuke Fleming's ugly rumours. If Malcolm had heard even a whisper of the what Steve's spread, Fleming's head would now be decorating one of the spikier railings outside Number Ten.  
  
'Is he...' Nicola sighs and shakes her head, irritated at herself. 'Of course he's all right. He's Malcolm fucking Tucker. It's just... I was _there,_ Sam. I was _there_...' Nicola's fighting down the panic that Malcolm will kill her as soon as he gets far enough down his to-do list, because that's really _not important now_.  
  
'I think he's ok now,' Sam says cautiously. 'He's got his family looking after him.' Nicola gives her an odd look, which Sam counters with her blandest expression, followed by a sigh and a grumble about having to get back into the office to deal with whatever the moustachioed wanker wants now. This devolves into a pleasant half-hour's conversation about the many vices of Steven Fleming (it's a wonder they stop at all).  
  
'Actually, that reminds me of something Malcolm once said. A joke, or I think it was a joke, about Steve Fleming having a crush on him.'  
  
Sam nods and adds that she has heard Malcolm make similar remarks. 'Though it's a bit unfair to base your opinion of someone's sexuality on their facial hair... They used to work together, before Malcolm deposed him.'  
  
'How about we give dear Steve a taste of his own medicine?' Nicola outlines a counter-smear, namely that Fleming's attempts to bring down Malcolm are the result of something that happened several years ago, when Malcolm was working under Fleming. Nicola gives a devious smile. 'It would fuck up Steve Fleming and assert Malcolm's complete heterosexuality.' She gives Sam a significant look. 'You never know when that sort of thing will come in useful.'  
  
Sam leaves with a renewed admiration for Nicola Murray, and a determination to ensure that Malcolm's made fully aware of the enormous debt he owes her. On the way into Westminster, she calls a few friends now working in Yale.  
  
3 Sam's grasp of human psychology is good enough that she can, intellectually, understand why Malcolm and Jamie are good together. But she finds it all faintly horrifying because she needs to believe that Malcolm is basically asexual, and she can't shake the feeling that Jamie is a wild animal tamed only (and not even wholly) by His Master's Voice (which is unfair, and a simplistic, classist, reduction of a complex human soul, she tells herself in her headmistress's voice). Mainly, she concentrates on not thinking about it in too much detail and focusing on the fact that he does quite clearly (far more clearly than either of the idiot men realise) make Malcolm happy.  
4 Sam knows enough about the government's pay scales to believe that on this subject Malcolm doesn't have an Armani-suited leg to stand on. Though, she supposes, he could be giving most of it away in charity.  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
When Sam makes it into work, she's summoned into Malcolm's office by a smiling Fleming, who shuts the door firmly behind her.  
  
'Now then, Sammy. We're a bit late in this morning, aren't we? I don't like to come over all disciplinarian, but obviously I do have to inquire. I do hope you weren't having a late night, though I know what you young people are like.' He grins in a ghastly parody of friendliness.  
  
'I had a doctor's appointment. I did put it in all the diaries.' Sam knows perfectly well that Fleming can't use the online diaries - technology's moved on while he was away - but she even put it in the diary on his desk for him. Which means that this little chat is probably some pathetic power play.  
  
Fleming pats her arm with one slightly damp hand. 'I do hope it wasn't anything too serious. And if you do need further time, you just have to ask.'  
  
Sam looks his straight in the eye (they're about the same height, which she finds disconcerting). 'It was just a routine scan. Apparently everything's normal for this stage, thankfully.'  
  
Fleming looks puzzled and raises an enquiring eyebrow.  
  
'I'm pregnant,' Sam lies calmly. 'I assumed you knew - it's all over Westminster.'  
  
~*~  
  
Sam makes a call to Julius Nicholson's secretary and asks to be put straight through. She's quietly gratified when this happens without delay or further questions. She tells Julius that she wants a meeting, somewhere private, because she needs to discuss something personal and doesn't know who else she can ask (she allows her voice to quaver slightly on this last point). Julius is so instantly, undemonstrably _kind_ that Sam almost wishes something _was_ wrong.  
  
She's ushered in his office during her lunch break. He sends his secretary off for her lunch and then locks the office door, glancing a brief request for permission at Sam as he does so. 'Now then, Samantha. Have you eaten - this must be your lunch break. Let me see...' and he rustles up a packet of biscuits and offers them to her. 'Got to keep up your, er, strength.'  
  
Sam smiles. 'I'm not pregnant, Julius. That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Someone,' she doesn't say who, but Julius immediately has his suspicions, 'has been briefing against me. The stuff about Nicola Murray isn't true, either.'  
  
'Oh, naturally I discounted that as so much idle malicious gossip. Such a very _unpleasant_ insinuation,' Julius seems to realise what he's implying and stops, blushing slightly. 'My apologies, Samantha, I didn't mean to suggest...'  
  
Sam gives him her best reassuring look and takes a biscuit. 'Of course not, Julius. And may I say, if I _were_ pregnant - in happy circumstances or otherwise - you'd be one of the people I'd inform personally, not let you hear on the grapevine.' Julius looks absurdly gratified. 'The other thing I came about was more serious. I know Steve Fleming hasn't been here long and is still familiarising himself with everything, but I have had several people come to me with concerns about him.'  
  
'What sort of concerns? I know he can be rather _brash_ and his manners aren't always, perhaps, quite the thing.'  
  
Sam slides a thin manila folder across the desk. Nicolson stares in horror at the bullet-point list inside. 'I wrote it down,' Sam says patiently, 'because it's easier to destroy that completely without leaving any paper trails. This can't... they trust me, and they'd be very upset if they knew that confidentiality had broken down.'  
  
Julius, like Malcolm, has always had a very good relationship with his secretaries (and with the cleaners, who would often listen to the West Indies Test Match with him while dusting the office). It came of being brought of up with staff about the house and repeated reminders that they have their own jobs to do and _no Julius, it is not Molly's job to put away your clothes or Aya's to do all your homework for you_. Malcolm, of course, has a memory of being one of the fucked over that sits like a splinter beneath his skin.  
  
So the Baron Arnage carefully reads Sam's compilation of support staffs' complaints against Steven Fleming and his sidekicks. None of them are, in themselves, damning (scarcely worth reporting, which is why nothing official had been done) but together they paint a fairly ugly picture.  
  
'Of course, I can assure you that you may rely on my silence in this matter. If I may be allowed a moment of pride,' he looks so smugly feline that Sam half expects him to start washing behind his ear with a paw, 'I think I am one of the more trustworthy members of this administration at the present time. This is... Samantha, I will treat this with the utmost confidentiality and the severity such matters deserve.'  
  
Coming from Malcolm 'the severity such matters deserve' would sound rather like 'with all due respect': one of those useful phrases that are absolutely true but happily convey the opposite message to what one privately thinks. However, from Julius, radiating sincerity from every pore, Sam believes it. Julius promises to call her as soon as he's ready to take the next step. 'I would hate,' he'd said, 'to be precipitious, and there is rather a lot balanced on the proverbial plate at the moment.'  
  
'As long as I'm not the last piece of broccoli you try to hide under the knife,' Sam says as she leaves.  
  
Julius chuckles.  
  
~*~  
  
She picks up the voicemail Jamie's left for her as she leaves Julius's office. Malcolm is apparently up and about and has eaten breakfast ('at least, he ate _something_ , you know what the fucker's like - norm'ly he tells me you always buy him breakfast and leaves without eating, like some fucking teenage anorexic') and lunch and is now reading the papers. He's already read half of Sam's briefing notes from the last few days. Also, Jamie's had a call from Frankie who'd heard that Fleming once made a drunken pass at Malcolm at Conference and Malcolm rebuffed him, which is why Fleming hates him, and did that come from Jamie. 'I told him to say nothing pet, but I presume that you and glummy fucking mummy? Jesus, ye're brilliant lasses.'  
  
Sam confirms Jamie's assumption with a quick text message, calls Nicola to congratulate her on her success, and gets back to her filing.  
  
At three o'clock Nicola Murray forwards Sam an email Olly has mistakenly copied her in on, gleefully sharing the news that apparently Fleming once propositioned a very young Malcolm Tucker at his _very first party conference_ when he was _barely legal_ and asked him to suck him off in the gents and everyone knows Fleming's mad but _trying to get Tucker to give him a blowjob_ is incontrovertible proof that he's further on the loopy path to lalaland than anyone thought.  
  
Nicola follows up this email with a brief call in which she dryly informs Sam that she will never again be taken in by anyone's assertions that press or communications is some arcane mystical science bollocks. 'All I did was ask Ben Swayne if he'd heard the latest about Fleming and Malcolm... and presto!'  
  
Sam can pinpoint the precise moment when Fleming hears. One of his flunkies sidles into Malcolm's office, the door is shut and there is absolute quiet for a few minutes. Then there's the sound of mugs smashing against the door (Malcolm has never, ever, been physically violent when Sam's around, though she sometimes comes in first thing in the morning and finds glass on the carpet in his office) and the flunky makes a hurried exit.  
  
~*~  
  
Julius has a meeting with Steve Fleming at 5pm. If he hasn't called Sam by then, she's going to have to initiate Stage Two.  
  
~*~  
  
When he arrives for his meeting, Julius gives Sam a reassuring smile and a pack of biscuits to bring in with the coffee. Dan Miller is rumoured to be lining up a _Newsnight_ appearance to deny any intention of making a leadership bit. Tom has holed himself up in No. 10 and allowed his wife to be photographed leaving to do the afternoon school run, conspicuously pushing their youngest in his buggy. It's transparently desperate; that sort of thing might have been a breath of fresh air in '97, but Sam knows (and Malcolm would know, if he were _fucking here_ ) that voters now perceive only a fetid, foul miasma of spin whenever ministerial children are wheeled out.  
  
Julius is evidently enjoying himself - he's not usually invited to 'crisis meetings', for the very good reason that he's shit at dealing with anything urgent. Julius is really only allowed to deal with long-term strategy (at which he's surprisingly adept) and what Malcolm had once referred to (in front of Julius) as touchy-feely-gropy HR titwank bollocks like making sure the government buys equal number of black biscuits, white biscuits, fucking mix-raced biscuits and those mincy little gay biscuits. Sam had honestly thought Julius might burst into tears.  
  
But Steve views Julius as one of his most reliable allies, which is why they're now ensconced in Malcolm's office.  
  
Sam would usually have been present in this type of meeting, taking notes and offering advice on the practicalities, but today she is relegated to bringing in the coffee. She puts the tray down carefully on Malcolm's desk but as she turns to go, her elbow catches one of the cups, sending coffee sluicing across the desk.  
  
'Fuck,' she says, quietly but distinctly. 'Fuck, fuckity _fuck_.' She wipes it up as best she can. 'Buggering _hell_ ,' she adds, for good measure.  
  
'I do apologise for Sammy's language,' Steve says, smiling his tight lipped smile. 'She really is a little potty-mouth.' He stands up, replacing the cup on the tray and passing Julius his coffee. Under Julius's appalled eyes, he chucks Sam under the chin. 'I'm afraid Malcolm Tucker must have _rubbed off_ on her in all sorts of ways. Very bad influence.'  
  
Sam avoids meeting Julius's gaze and escapes as soon as possible. She doesn't allow herself to shudder until she's shut the door behind her.  
  
It's half an hour before Julius emerges. He makes sure the door has been shut behind him and then comes over to Sam's desk. 'Samantha,' he says seriously. 'I believe I may owe you an apology. Was that _display_ typical?'  
  
Sam nods. She does feel vaguely bad for manipulating Julius, who has only ever wanted to _help_ and has decided deep in his baldy head that he has a _duty of care_ to pretty much everyone in Westminster. Still, it's nothing but the truth. 'He does make rather unpleasant insinuations about Malcolm and myself. And he's perhaps more tactile than I've been accustomed to.'  
  
Julius looks faintly surprised at this.  
  
'Malcolm was always very careful about maintaining appropriate professional boundaries,' Sam says, knowing that this is the sort of language that brings a thrill to Julius's bureaucratic heart.5  
  
'Speaking of Malcolm, I was wondering if perhaps you might... this Dan Miller situation is threatening to become critical. I know how closely you worked with Malcolm and I was rather hoping...'  
  
'... that I might know where some bodies are buried?' Sam finishes for him. 'I'd love to help, Julius, honestly. And I can give you one or two names, but there's only so much I can do. And a lot of my contacts are only really effective with the implied weight of Malcolm behind me.'  
  
Julius smiles faintly. 'I suspect you underestimate yourself, Samantha. But I see your point. I do appreciate your help.'  
  
'How serious is the Dan Miller problem? Surely the Prime Minister...'  
  
Julius simply looks at her. 'I don't think, at this stage, that one can overstate the danger posed by Dan Miller. The government is less stable than one would like at this point in the electoral cycle.'  
  
Sam nods seriously, switches to a lighter tone. 'And your report? I imagine that's taking a great deal of your time?' She looks sympathetic as Julius grimaces.  
  
'It's almost finished. I think there may have to be one or two minor amendments.'  
  
'I'm sure it'll be a triumph.'  
  
They were interrupted by a shout of 'Sammy! Those figures on the overspend, if you'd be so kind.' Julius hurries away, thinking hard.  
  
5 Early on in her career with Malcolm, he had been ranting at the general idiocy of everyone in government, standing rather close to Sam. He'd raised a hand to illustrate a point and Sam, to her horror, found herself flinching. She still remembers how Malcolm stopped absolutely dead, glared at her, aghast, and then taken a careful step backwards and resumed his rant. After that, he'd barely so much as accidentally touched her hand while passing over documents.


	3. Tucker triumphant

Sam leaves early (that is one thing to be said for Steven Fleming, she thinks guilty, she hasn't left dead-on 5pm for _years_ , nor though has she ever _wanted_ to leave so much) and is just sitting down to eat when her phone buzzes. Her heart stops for a moment when she sees who's calling.  
  
'Sam! How's things?' He does have the grace to sound a little apologetic. 'Thanks for the briefing notes - I've been keeping myself up to date. Jamie tells me you're handling the fucking wankers perfectly. Anyway, Sam, I don't have time for small talk. I've been summoned to the lair of Ming the fucking Hairless and I need to know _exactly_ what's going on.'  
  
Sam cradles the phone against her shoulder as she puts her food back in the oven to stay warm. Malcolm's outlining what he already knows from Jamie, and (by extension) the Black Watch. Sam fills him in on any of the other details, working almost on autopilot. She tells Malcolm about the complaints against Fleming, but leaves out any mention of smears, rumours, legal threats or inappropriate boundaries.  
  
'I'll call again when I'm out, Sam, yeah? Will that be ok - I'm sorry to keep you up, pet, but it's a bit of a fucking emergency, isn't it.' There's a pause. 'I fucking _despise_ Steve Fleming, Sam,' he confesses quietly.  
  
'We can start a club,' Sam replies dryly. 'I think you might even get Lord Nicholson to join if we're lucky.'  
  
'Sam,' his voice is quiet and faintly husky. She hopes he's got his inhaler with him. 'I probably won't say this later, and I know I fucking should, so... thank you. OK? I really do fucking appreciate it.'  
  
Sam finds she's swallowing back tears. 'What time do you think you'll be finished with Julius?'  
  
'Well, you'll no' be fucking surprised to hear that this secret meeting apparently involves a midnight feast. You know what he's like. I don't care as long as he doesn't think he's back at his fucking _school_ and tries to cop a fucking feel.'  
  
'You owe Julius a lot, Malcolm,' Sam says bravely. 'Be nice.'  
  
'Aye. Well, if I haven't called by midnight, I was last seen having dinner with Julius Nicholson, wearing a brown jacket and you will kindly report my disappearance as fucking suspicious.'  
  
He rings off. Sam can barely stop smiling long enough to eat.  
  
~*~  
  
Sam arrives in the office the next morning with a to-do list numbering only two items. Both are for Malcolm: one he outlined when he _finally_ called the night before (she really was starting to think Julius might have abducted him); the other is for her own satisfaction.  
  
She makes sure that Malcolm's suit is still hanging, uncreased and perfect, at the office and orders in a new shirt for him. She checks that she still has a pair of his cufflinks in her top drawer.  
  
When Steve Fleming arrives, she claims that she has a message from Julius. He has some concerns about his forthcoming independent report and wondered if Steve would assist him in thinking through one or two minor points. All very hush-hush, naturally. She reminds Fleming that Julius goes out to feed the ducks at about 11am, and that it would be a good time to bump into him informally. Fleming smiles at her helpfulness and starts muttering trite platitudes about how he _knew_ she would come to her senses if they both gave it _time_ and hopefully they can soon forget all about the nightmarish Scottish despot.  
  
By the time 11am comes around, there are reports that Malcolm has been sighted in DoSAC and wild rumours that Steve is going to be dished in Nicholson's report. Everyone immediately stops working and just watches the rolling news. Steve starts screaming at them, all attempts at conviviality gone, but it's no good. If Steve's still in power tomorrow, he'll _have_ to work with them if he wants to get anything done. If Steve's _not..._ well, they need to be able to tell Tucker they were bringing Fleming down from within.  
  
~*~  
  
Over at DoSAC, Malcolm smiles and makes tea and flirts outrageously at anyone within range. He's particularly proud of his performance with Olly Reader. He should get a fucking Oscar for this sort of thing.  
  
The baby gimpanzee hooks Malcolm up to one of the printers and then runs away to do his bidding. Malcolm could have asked Sam to do this, but the poor girl's probably got enough to deal with and he can't risk Steve seeing this. He can feel how delicately things are balanced. The sooner he can get the situation off its current knife-edge, the better (not least because he wants to stick the fucking knife in Steve Flemimg's fucking over-insulated gut). Besides, Malcolm wants to see the ink on the page himself - nothing like having it in black and white.  
  
The printer buzzes and spews out Steve Fleming's resignation lettter. It's a work of fucking art, constructed by Malcolm in the early hours following his meeting with Nicholson (with minor input from Jamie. Sadly his 'I am resigning because I'm a fucking **cunt** with my head so far up my own arse I'm looking out at the world through my own fucking nipples' had to be cut from the final version, though 'I am resigning in favour of Malcolm Tucker because I'm not fucking worthy to lick _dog-shite_ off his fucking shoes' had earnt Jamie a bruising kiss).  
  
Malcolm's never been more pleased that he keeps official headed paper at home 'for emergencies', and he's quietly satisfied to discover he can still forge Fleming's signature.  
  
~*~  
  
Sam is one of the first to see the breaking news, accompanied by pictures of Julius and Steve talking. It takes another five minutes before her friend Emma has emailed her the picture, now captioned 'COTTAGING: UR DOIN IT RONG' and five more after that before Steve's swearing starts.  
  
~*~  
  
Sam, not usually demonstrative, has to work hard to resist the urge to hug Malcolm when he sweeps back into the office. He _beams_ at her, which confirms this as one of the happiest days of her life. (You sad fuck, she chides herself, you need to _get_ a life).  
  
Sam goes back to her desk and prepares for government.  
  
~*~  
  
Behind closed doors, Steve Fleming is handed a stiff white envelope and exits in a fit of screamed threats.  
  
Malcolm, in the privacy of his own office, calls the Prime Minister.  
  
~*~  
  
When things are calmer and it's finally just Sam and Malcolm left in the office (and a phalanx of triumphant Scots, led by Jamie, starting the election campaign from the press room), Malcolm stalks out his door. 'A word, please, Sam.'  
  
Sam smiles and follows him. He's actually got a bottle of whisky on the desk (Sam can count on the fingers of one hand the times she's seen him drink), but it looks untouched. He smiles his sharklike smile and pours her a glass. 'A bit of celebration's in order, eh? I'm back, and Nicholson's gonnae bury Fleming so deep the fucking pressure will squash him down to some kind of immensely fucking fatty oil and in a million years they can dig him up and the cunt might be of some fucking use for the first time in his existence.'  
  
Sam sips the whisky and tries not to grin.  
  
'Now, I know the fucking basics, Sam, but there are one or two loose ends - and you know how I fucking hate loose ends.'  
  
Sam feels herself slot straight back into business mode.  
  
'First: you and Glummy Mummy have been up to something but _no one_ will tell me what. I do not like being fucking stonewalled, Sam.'  
  
Sam sits down and puts down her glass. She was really, _really_ hoping not to have to bring this up. Haltingly, she gives the briefest sketch of the smears Fleming had been spreading.  
  
Malcolm doesn't explode, but his face _hardens_ until it's set in a rictus mask of savagery. Sam watches, fascinated, as his right hand clenches and unclenches where it rests on the desk. He seems to be fighting for control. After a second, he _apologises_ that Sam and Nicola had to get splattered with the blood from Steve fucking Fleming's personal vendetta. He forces himself to take a wheezing breath. 'And how did ye solve this clusterfucktastrophe?'  
  
'Well,' Sam fights the tremor in her voice, 'Nicola and I set the lawyers on them. And, er, there was a counter-smear that, um, somehow leaked.'  
  
'Oh aye. I imagine it was something pretty fucking appalling, Sam, because Julius fucking Nicholson actually tried to fucking _pity me_ when I mentioned Steve.'  
  
'You know how these things happen. Nicola told Olly Reader that Steve hated you because you once turned him down. Within about an hour, it had... escalated.'  
  
Malcolm grinned. 'I knew I shouldn't have left two together. Fucking _hell_. Don't look so worried, darlin', I'm not going to fucking make you tell me this 'escalation'.'  
  
Sam echoes his smile. 'It is, er, the sort of thing that you should probably reassure Jamie is absolutely not true, if you don't want him arrested for the murder of Steve Fleming.' It's the closest they come to discussing Jamie's _relationship_ with Malcolm.  
  
'I had to talk Glummy Mummy out of transferring to the US,' Malcolm says conversationally, taking a slow swallow of his whisky. 'Some _retard_ in Yale thought she'd be good for their policy unit.'  
  
'Well done for talking her out of it. She's really surprisingly competent.' Sam's poker-faced.  
  
'Aye. Well. She might just be one of the fucking turds that would actually improve with a wee bit of polishing... What I'm very fucking interested to know, though, is how some rather important and fucking highly-placed people in _America_ heard about a minor fucking British politician and realised she was just the sort of person they needed _right now_.'  
  
Sam says nothing. She knows her face is giving nothing away. Malcolm tries outstaring her, but she can tell he's not trying _that_ hard.  
  
'Well,' Malcolm continues eventually. 'If she's staying I suppose we should see what we can do with her. When Tom wins the election,' Sam admires the utter conviction in his voice, 'he'll be having a reshuffle.'  
  
Sam doesn't trust herself to say anything, but nods enthusiastically.  
  
'And there's one other thing, Sam. One tiny fucking thing.'  
  
'Yes, Malcolm.'  
  
He pauses and trails a spidery hand over his exhausted face. 'Exactly how much do I owe Lord fucking Nicholson?'  
  
'He was very kind to me, Malcolm,' she says - she is welll aware that is one of the few things that might endear him to Malcolm. 'When he thought Fleming... and he does genuinely believe in the project, which is more than some.'  
  
'I am actually aware of that fucking fact, Sam. I knew the baldy fuck when he fucking had hair. I'm not a complete fucking moron, you know.'  
  
Sam hastens to reassure him that does, indeed, know that. She considers. 'I would say you probably owe him about a fortnight's grace on teasing him6, the reinstation of your weekly discussion meetings and the implementation of at least one of his ideas each month.'  
  
Malcolm nods. 'That sounds about fucking right. I just don't want to be _nice_ to the great fucker.'  
  
Sam can't help giving him reproachful look and he has the grace to look chastened. 'I'll see if I can suggest an idea that he can pass on to you, so we don't end up paying for one of his wilder brainwaves.'  
  
'Aye, a monorail from inner-city London direct to the theatre at fucking Stratford-on-Poxbridge so all the deprived kiddies can be persauded to see Shakespeare. Free ipods preloaded with Debussy and fucking _Wagner_ to hand out with each ASBO...'  
  
Sam's finished her whisky. 'Are you going home, Malcolm?'  
  
He looks around his office and moves slightly, feeling the cut of his suit move against his shoulders.  
  
'I...,' she needs to say it, her scrupulous sense of fairness won't let her do anything else. 'If you needed Jamie here to finesse some of the election strategy, co-ordinate the press team, that'd be ok. I mean,' she falls back onto formulaic phrases, 'I henceforth withdraw my refusal to be in the same room as him.'  
  
Malcolm looks at her, and the roil of emotions behind his blank blue eyes frightens her slightly.  
  
'I haven't forgotten, Malcolm, and I still think the man's _disturbed_ , but, well, you're not the only one who owes a great deal to people to whom you'd prefer not to be endebted.'  
  
'Christ, Sam. I'm going to send you and every other fucking Oxbridge graduate to a re-education camp if you use sentences like that. You're lucky I'm fucking brilliant.' He shuts his eyes briefly. 'Go home, pet. We're going to be fucking busy tomorrow. And think up anything you might have on Dan fucking Miller.'  
  
6One of Malcolm's favourite ways of winding up Julius (and the only one about which he's ever felt a little guilty) had begun after he found out that Julius was an obsessive fan of _I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue_ and that he was inordinately fond of young Sam. Under the guise of great affability ('bonding over your sassenach pansy homoerotic humour'), Malcolm would retell several of the funnier jokes from the lastest episode (doing so, as often as possible, while Sam was in the room, all three of them laughing merrily), before claiming that he didn't understand any of the lines that referred to Samantha. '"Samantha is off to see a chef gentleman friend who is renowned for his fine-quality offal dishes. While she's very keen on his kidneys in red wine and his oxtail in beer, Samantha says it's difficult to beat his famous tongue in cider," he'd repeat, sounding honestly baffled. I don't even know why that's meant to be _funny_ ' and watch while Julius, a faint blush staining his cheeks, would glance anxiously between Sam and Malcolm before calling Malcolm a low-down naughty bastard with no manners, and mincing fussily out.  
  
~*~  
  
Steve Fleming comes to collect his things two days later. Sam has helpfully stacked them all in a box for him and Malcolm has carefully labelled it 'Twatface's crap' so they know it's Fleming's.  
  
He's going to say something, but Sam interrupts him. 'Fuck off, Stephen.'  
  
He stares comically, jaw hanging open. ' _Steve_ ,' he hisses. 'And I see you're much fucking braver now Mr Malcolm Tucker's back. Weren't so keen to stand up to people when your Scottish psycho protector wasn't around were we? Had to wait for him to weasel himself back before you made _threats_.'  
  
Sam looks at him levelly from behind her desk. 'I could take you down with one hand behind my back, Mr Fleming. In fact, I practically _did_. If I _ever_ see you here again, I will tear your manky skin off in tiny little strips, which I then use to garotte you slowly. And _then_ , I'll summon a friendly demon to drag your moustachioed arse out of hell so I can hack off your wandering hands with a penknife. And _only then_ , if he asks very, _very_ nicely, will I even _consider_ letting Malcolm have a go with you.'  
  
Steve Fleming's face has gone chalky grey. Sam smiles sweetly and starts to write an email. She hears him leave and a slow handclap starts from the other side of the room.  
  
'Malcolm,' Sam says, grimly. 'I was rather hoping you didn't hear that.'  
  
'I was going to come out and rip his baldy fucking head off, but it seemed like you had things under control.' Sam nods,smiles and waits. Malcolm looks at her for a moment. 'Coffee and a skinny muffin, please, when you have a second, Sam.'


End file.
